Iâve seen her, and I scarcely know her husband.â
âThey spend a lot of time in America. Theyâre in London now, though. HeâAdolfâis getting richer every day.â
âThatâs a good thing, isnât it?â said Frances, rather timidly. She had an intimate enough acquaintance with the inconveniences of poverty to respect wealth, although she neither envied nor aspired to it for herself.
âA very good thing.â
There was a pause, and Claudia turned her gaze on her friend. Her expression was mournful.
âI neednât ever worry about Anna any more. Dâyou remember how I used to wonder what would become of her, and what she was going to do with her life?â
Frances remembered very well. She could remember also the frantic unhappiness and anxiety of the elder sister throughout the series of violent and disastrous love-affairs that had so thickly bestrewn the path of Annaâs youth.
âYou donât worry about her any more, now?â she hazarded.
Claudia hesitatedâdrew a long breath.
Then she spoke.
âI couldnât say this to anybody but you, Frances âbut youâre part of the past, Annaâs and mine. FrancesâIâve lost Anna.â
Her friend could only echo in dismay: âLost her!â
âThereâs nothing real between us any more. You know what she and I were to one another, all through our childhood and girlhood. Anna was the person I loved best in the world. She is still, in some ways. But sheâs changed terribly, in the last few years.â
âChanged? But how?â
âSheâs grown away from me altogether. I think it began when she married. You see, I didnât like Adolf. Iâve got to face the fact that I tried to bring pressure to bear on Anna. I tried to direct her life for her. Thatâs what she resents. Sheâs never forgotten it, and I thinkâI think sheâs never forgiven it either.â
Claudiaâs voice trembled.
âIâve got to face it,â she repeated, with careful candour. âIâve domineered over Anna all her life, more or less, and she resents itâand always will.â
âBut, Claudiaânot
now.
Surely not now, when itâs all over, and sheâs got her own life, and youâve got yours.â
âNo one knows how deeply those things sink in,â Claudia said sombrely. âAnnaâs resentment of my bullying was probably subconscious for yearsand years. It was only after she married, and got quite free from me, that she really understood what Iâd been doing to her.â
âBut Claudiaâââ
âYes, itâs quite true. Iâve got to face it,â Claudia repeated.
Frances, deeply troubled and bewildered, could only look at her in mute sympathy.
âYouâve got Arling,â she ventured again. âI was so glad when you wrote and told me.â
âYes. I wanted, almost more than anything, to see the children growing up where Anna and I grew up. They couldnât have their early childhood here, as we hadâthough Maurice was still quite little when we cameâbut I think they love it.â
âHow could they help it? And itâs all so wonderfully unchanged. Almost as if thereâd never been the war or anything.â
âThatâs what I feel. Itâs a little bit like putting the clock back. Though, of course, it canât be that, really. We havenât got any of the land, you know. I could only buy the house and the park, and one fieldâthe one between us and the farmâand itâs difficult enough to keep it all up as it is.â
âIt must be, with things as they are now. Doesâdoes Copper like it?â
âAs well as heâd like anywhere, I suppose.â
Claudia was silent for a moment, and then she used a phrase that she had used before, that afternoon.
âI couldnât say this to anybody but you.